“I don’t imagine it was much of a contest,” I murmured, helping him to peel off the dusty coat. “William Tryon’s not even Scots, let alone a Fraser.”
That got me a reluctant half-smile. “Stubborn as rocks,” was the succinct description of the Fraser clan I had been given years before—and nothing in the intervening time period had given me cause to think it inaccurate in any way.
“Aye, well.” He shrugged and stretched luxuriously, his vertebrae cracking from the long ride. “ Oh, Christ. I’m starved; is there food?” He relaxed and lifted his long nose, sniffing the air hopefully.
“Baked ham and sweet potato pie,” I told him, unnecessarily, since the honey-soaked fragrances of both were thick on the humid air. “So what did the Governor say, once you’d got him properly browbeaten?”
His teeth showed briefly at that description of his interview with Tryon, but I gathered from his faint air of satisfaction that it wasn’t totally incorrect. “Oh, a number of things. But to begin with, I insisted he recall to me the circumstances when Roger Mac was taken; who gave him up, and what was said. I mean to get to the bottom of it.” He pulled the thong from his hair and shook out the damp locks, dark with sweat.
Diana Gabaldon, The Fiery Cross (Chapter 73 – A Whiter Shade of Pale)
The Fiery Cross
“But if Hamish mac Callum still lives…” Jamie had not taken his hand from Roger’s shoulder, and at this it squeezed tight. “That’s news to gladden the heart, no?” He smiled at Roger, with such obvious joy that Roger felt an unexpected grin break out on his own face in answer.
“Aye,” he said, the weight on his heart lightening. “Aye, it is!” The fact that he would not know Hamish mac Callum MacKenzie from a hole in the ground was unimportant; the man was indeed kin to him – blood kin – and that was a glad thought.
“Where have they gone, then? Jamie demanded, dropping his hand. “Hamish and his followers?”
To Acadia – to Canada, the Bugs agreed. To Nova Scotia? To Maine? No – to an island, they decided, after a convoluted conference. Or was it perhaps-
Jemmy interrupted the proceedings with a yowl indicating imminent starvation, and Mrs. Bug started as though poked with a stick.”
Diana Gabaldon, The Fiery Cross (Chapter 8 – The Factor)
It’s that time of year again! Are you ready to get your Cherry Bounce on? We had dozens join in the fun last year, and I’m pretty sure we all loved the Bounce — it was sweet, boozy and delicious — without too much of the cough syrup taste that many of us feared.
Join us! All you need is a pound of cherries, the hoochiest bottle of booze you can find (we had Vodka, Brandy, Everclear and a few other versions in addition to whisky last year — all with rave reviews!)
You’ll find the recipe in my post from last year: The Great Cherry Bounce Experiment. Come on, you know you want to…
IT SEEMED RATHER a long time before Jamie reappeared, though the indignant cries of the searchers had been quickly stilled. If Jamie had got his bum smacked, Roger thought cynically, he appeared to have enjoyed it. A slight flush showed on the high cheekbones, and he wore a faint but definite air of satisfaction.
This was explained at once, though, when Jamie produced a small bundle from inside his shirt and unwrapped a linen towel, revealing half a dozen fresh biscuits, still warm, and dripping with melted butter and honey.
“I think perhaps Mrs. Bug meant them for the quilting circle,” he said, distributing the booty. “But here was plenty of batter left in the bowl; I doubt they’ll be missed.”
Diana Gabaldon, The Fiery Cross (Chapter 108 – Tulach Ard)
Catholic as many of them were — and nominally christian as they all were – Highland Scots regarded Christmas primarily as a religious observance, rather than a major festive occasion. Lacking priest or minister, the day was spent much like a Sunday, though with a particularly lavish meal to mark the occasion, and the exchange of small gifts. My own gift from Jamie had been the wooden ladle I was presently using, its handle carved with the image of a mint leaf; I had given him a new shirt with a ruffle at the throat for ceremonial occasions, his old one having worn quite away at the seams.
Diana Gabaldon, The Fiery Cross (Chapter 34 – Charms)